


Crows, Sparrows, and Hawkeyes

by AndreaDTX



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Hawkeye origin story, M/M, Phil recruits Clint, Protective Phil Coulson, Underage Sex (Not between Clint and Coulson), pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-11-23 12:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18152087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaDTX/pseuds/AndreaDTX
Summary: A Hawkeye Origin Story.Hawkeye’s greatest skill is his uncanny aim. Clint’s is the ability to adapt and survive.Before there was Hawkeye, long-time SHIELD agent, part-time Avenger, legendary archer, there is Clint Barton, teenaged orphan, chronic runaway, washed-out circus star, semi-reformed petty criminal, illegitimate porn star. Despite his best efforts, Clint’s life is going nowhere, fast. Until he crosses paths with a seemingly harmless man with a soft voice and an iron will who offers him a way out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I looked up and realized I have 49 posted pieces, meaning whatever I posted next would be my 50th work. For me, that felt like kind of a big deal so I thought long and hard about what I wanted that piece to be about, mentally scrolling through my favorite pairings. Steve and Bucky? Steve and Natasha? Iron dad and Spider kid? But when it came down to it, my goal has always been to write the fan fic I want to read, particularly niches that are woefully underrepresented. I’m going to let you in on a secret: Hawkeye is my favorite OG Avenger. And I feel like Hawkeye origin stories are a criminally underpopulated niche of the fan fic community. So, without further ado, I present to you: the Amazing Hawkeye.
> 
> This is a work in progress and a pairing I've never explored before so I'll update as often as I can but I'm not on any type of set schedule. It might be slow going but 50 stories in and I've yet to abandon one. Kudos and comments do however make me write faster...
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: This chapter is sexually explicit. See end notes for trigger warnings, but be warned that the trigger warnings contain spoilers for the chapter.
> 
> A/N: At some point, I really might come back and tone down chapter 1. The further in I write, the less it matches the tone of the rest of the story and I know Clint's age makes it a turn off for many readers. I just haven't figured out where to make the cuts to leave the intensity of the idea intact without the graphic explicitness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for sexual content. See End Notes for details and please, please, please take care of yourself.
> 
> Edit: Toned down chapter one. Decided it was a little too explicit for the tone of the rest of the story. However, there is still significant sexual content so TW still applies.

Clint’s so high no one can touch him.

Well, they can. And they do.

But Clint’s high enough he doesn’t care. Not really. A little blue pill, one or two pink ones, half a pale-yellow bar-shaped tablet, and all the sharp edges go soft and fuzzy for a few hours. The big, hulking cameras cease to exist. The bright stage lights look more like sun bursts. The hands on his skin become welcome touches, teasing him with sensation, demanding his moans, groans, and grunts, wringing every drop of pleasure until he’s completely drained and then pushing him to give a little bit more. Given the cocktail buzzing through his veins during any given scene, the whole thing becomes something Clint might even describe as ‘kinda awesome.’

“How you doin’, Flint?” Jack, his scene partner, asks, briefly injecting reality into Clint’s trip.

“’M good,” Clint murmurs, arching into Jack’s touch, closing his eyes, and falling back into the mental haze.

Three months ago, when he first showed up looking for work, some of the crew raised an eyebrow at the idea of filming when one of the actors shows up doing his best imitation of a kite, but Clint explained it away, insisting he’s naturally shy and the pills help him come out of his shell. Begrudgingly, the producer allowed a test scene. While anyone within arm’s reach could take one look at Clint’s pupils and see the truth, he proved he could still follow directions and didn’t come across as stoned on film. So, they took him at his word and dropped it, looking the other way as long as he isn’t sloppy about it.

They have no way of knowing of the truth, that this is just one of the many lies he's told throughout his life, a desperate performance in order to survive. Far from bringing out his true personality, the pills help Clint burrow his true self into a shell.

And there, he doesn’t have to wonder how he ended up here or what his mom would think if she’d lived to see this or if he’ll ever be able to get real work with this kind of dirty laundry in his closet. He doesn’t have to think of the thousands, maybe millions of people who will jerk off imagining what they’d do if they could get their hands on him. He doesn’t have to wonder if some cruel twist of fate will drop a copy of one of his videos into the laps of one of the few people he actually respects like Henry Carson.

Nope. Once a week, in exchange for enough money that he doesn’t have to worry about food or rent and can actually dare to imagine a future for himself, Clint pops his pills, shuts down his brain, and turns over control of his body for eight straight hours, submitting to every demand.

And the crowds fucking love him.

“I need a color,” Jack prods as his fingers do something wicked that makes Clint whine sharply.

“ _Green,_ ” Clint moans, rolling his hips the best he can.

In a way, Clint’s lucky. His slighter build and stature make him really popular for the more vanilla forms of kink. Soft shit like 'Twink’s first time' and 'Noobie gets drilled' or whatever. The customers who are drawn to his particular look want to see a fresh-faced, supposedly innocent man-boy be shocked by the idea of a sex act and then not-so-secretly love it. So, Clint comes in, slaps on the excited grin he’s perfected, holds his fake ID up next to his face, and is filmed verbally verifying his age and consenting to the slate he’s been scheduled for that day. Usually, it’s fairly sedate stuff that lets them knock out enough material for three or four videos back to back. Getting a blow job while acting like he’s never had one before and is nearly dying of pleasure? Check. Giving a blow job while staring up with big, soulful eyes and periodically pretending to choke? Check. Being fucked in various positions while gasping about how full he feels and begging for more? Been there, done that. Afterwards, they usually wrap it up with a series post-coital interview that are then spliced at the end of the appropriate video where Clint gushes about how much he loved it all and is looking forward to playing more next time.

Today's a little out of the normal, though. They’re working on something different. Apparently some ridiculously loaded subscriber wrote in and commissioned a scenario, specifically requesting Clint, or Flint Poleman as he’s known on set, for a specific fantasy he wants to see acted out. The entire set is buzzing about it. They’re a fairly small operation. Custom requests could open up massive new revenue for them.

At first, Clint’s not sure how he feels about being singled out, but when they tell him how much his personal cut will be, he gets over it quickly. The payday from this single film will go a long way towards shoring up his nest egg and getting him the hell out of Dodge. He's totally willing to bend over and grab ankles or whatever for that. A few calls and a large money transfer later and they’re roaring to go.

_So, Flint, how would you feel about a little edging today?_

_Umm… I don’t… I don’t really know what that is. Does it… Does it feel good?_

Which is how Clint ends up naked, his wrists tied to the headboard. His ankles are bound to his thighs with another set of ropes running around his knees and down to the rails of the bed frame, keeping his legs spread, his body open to touch.

Clint’s gasping, panting, not just feigning for the cameras, but in true desperation, as Jack’s hand work.

“Please…. Please, I need…” Clint groans, hips jerking up as much as the ropes will allow. “More…” 

Jack aggressively works Clint open until he can easily accept three thick fingers, making Clint writhe.

“Good?” he asks teasingly.

Clint nods dumbly, watches wordlessly as Jack’s other hand slides upward.He grips Clint’s shaft tightly, using his thumb to work the tip in hard fast circles, delivering the speed and friction Clint has been desperate for this whole time, shoving Clint to the hovering edge of release.

But just as he starts to seize up, Jack lets go abruptly.

“No!” Clint howls desperately, his voice breaking. 

Jack tuts mockingly, really playing it up for the cameras.

Then Jack, the bastard, repeats the whole process again, once, twice, until Clint's crying in earnest, just as their patron had requested, pleading brokenly for release.

“You’ve been so good. I think you’ve earned it,” Jack croons.

Finally, Jack takes him in a firm, tight grip and a rhythm that sends Clint careening towards the finish line so fast his heart physically hurts a little as his pulse races to keep up with the increased stimulation.

“Yeah, yeah, please…” Clint chants between gasping breaths, his hips squirming. His muscles tense, tighter and tighter, spots dance in front of his eyes, and…

“Freeze! Federal agents! This is a raid! Everybody put your hands up!”

The hand that has been guiding Clint towards burning bliss is suddenly snatched away.

“No!” Clint howls, utterly oblivious to what’s happening around him, only able to focus on the broken promise of release. “Fuck! Jack… Come on! You promised!”

But Jack doesn’t respond.

After a few seconds where Clint’s sure he’s going to burst into honest to god tears, he peels his eyes open.

And sees he’s surrounded by what looks like a SWAT team. A brief glance around the room shows him all of his coworkers in various positions of surrender, some standing with their hands in the air, others kneeling with their hands behind their heads. Clint can't even begin to process what's going on. His eyes drift back to one of the guys in all black, a balaclava covering most of his face. The guy hesitantly takes a first step towards Clint only to be pulled back. The guy looks over his shoulder then makes way for whomever he sees there.

A man in a neat, black suit steps between two of the gun-toting goons. He’s kind of bland looking, the kind of nondescript that probably makes him very effective as a fed, with just the slightest hint of what will probably eventually be a receding hairline. And he has the kindest blue eyes.

“How old are you?” he asks softly, his demeanor somehow simultaneously non-judgmental and concerned.

Clint blinks slowly, struggling to bring his brain back online, the question echoing in the void of his mind where his thoughts should be. Unable to answer around the lump of thwarted desire in his throat, he moans and licks his lips, letting his eyes fall shut.

“Christ…” somebody else murmurs. “Cover him up.”

A heavy blanket drops over Clint’s hips. And mortifyingly, the solid weight and soft, velveteen texture is the final nudge he needs to go flying over the edge.

He moans and spasms, incapable of even being embarrassed in the moment as he pants through the long-awaited release. When it’s over, his body slumps and his eyes roll back. Exhaustion and the downers he took prove to be too much even in the middle of a clear crisis. In the split second before the darkness pulls him under, Clint belatedly thinks, ‘I might be in trouble.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Clint is working as a porn actor. He has lied about his age, letting the people around him think he is eighteen, capable of legally consenting and participating in adult films. In reality, he is sixteen, making everything they're doing illegal. While Clint is there willingly, this is legally non-consensual since he is not of age to consent to this type of activity. Clint also uses mind-altering drugs while working that affect his awareness of his surroundings making consent even cloudier.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time trying to write a story with more than one POV. Let me know what you think!

When people think of a covert federal agency, it’s probably all explosions and master spies running around in a global game of cat and mouse, like in the movies. And, yes, admittedly that _is_ part of what SHIELD does. But it’s only made possible by the million other mundane things they do, including surveillance, infiltration, and raids. Companies of all sizes from mom and pop shops to multinational conglomerates. Any of them can house a nasty underbelly which might swell out of control if unchecked.

While far lower on the list of priorities, they raid a porn studio roughly once a quarter. Some of the owners piss and moan, railing against puritanical moral judgment sanctioned by the government (although they usually shout it with much more colorful words of the four-letter variety) and Phil’s been accused of being a pearl-clutching busybody more than once. But the truth is far more complex. While the industry is nominally legal, the lack of any true regulatory agency beyond the CDC (whose primary concern is keeping a lid on communicable diseases) tends to draw in seedier elements looking for a legitimate front for their shadier activities, sometimes with the owner and workers none the wiser. So, SHIELD dutifully keeps their ear to the ground, listening for the next murmur that could lead to a bigger bust, like today.

Phil, standing in a small, eight by ten interrogation room they commandeered from the local PD, flips open the folder he already knows by heart. Happy Trails, a small studio owned by one Hunter F. Thompson, birth name Ralph Edward Burroughs, suddenly started garnering a lot of chatter on the trade wires about two weeks ago. Initial investigation showed reasonable finances for a company their size. A quick glance through their video portfolio showed an offering that wasn’t necessarily to Phil’s personal tastes but neither did they merit governmental intervention.

That all changed this morning when the little company was wired a deposit ten times their normal monthly income from a series of dummy corporations SHIELD analysts had tagged as being associated with Sergei Rutsov, an up-and-coming Latverian crime boss desperate to get footholds established in the West.

Phil looks up from his file and settles his gaze on his detainee. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits and waits.

After a few moments of what most would probably call ‘uncomfortable eye contact’, the guy begins to squirm.

“Don’t you have to let me make a phone call or something?” he blurts out.

Phil tilts his head ever so slightly to the right and waits two more seconds before answering. “You’re thinking of jail where you’re processed and booked, then allowed to call someone to arrange bail. You’re quite a few levels above jail, Mr. Thompson.”

Thompson shifts nervously, his breathing speeding up a few ticks.

“Then maybe I need a lawyer...”

Phil pauses, waits for Thompson to make the words a firm request rather than a vague musing tossed out to gauge reaction. But the man doesn’t. Which is probably for the best. Phil hates invoking the anti-terrorism laws just to run the clock.

“No need,” Phil says, taking a seat across from Thompson, the metal slab of a table all that separates them. From here, he can see the fine sheen of sweat starting to bead Thompson’s hairline.

“I just want to ask you a few questions about your business.”

Thompson’s lips pinch into a frown before smoothing out. He crosses his arms but sits up a little straighter. “I didn’t know the feds were into porn but who am I to judge?”

Phil lets his lips curve up into a small smile. “For the most part, we aren’t. As long as you pay your taxes.”

“And I do. Every year. I get a bit of a kick outta watching the tax prep lady blush when I tell her how much lube I’m writing off as a business-related expense,” Thompson says with a bemused smile, his body language loosening just a bit. “So, I should be good, right?”

“Sure, as long as all of your actors are consenting adults,” Phil says.

“Consenting…,” Thompson parrots slowly, seeming genuinely confused.

“Your actors. Consenting adults. Are they?”

Thompson’s brow furrows and his face mottles a patchy red. Whatever ease had been in his body disappears.

“Hey, man. Whatever you’re trying to say… I run a legitimate business. Church folk might not like it, but it’s all on the up and up. Everybody on my roster? There _willingly_. I make sure of it each and every time they come in.”

Phil purses his lips to show that he’s giving the man’s words actual consideration.

“As important as consent is, I’m actually more focused on the ‘adult’ part.”

Thompson blanches.

“I don’t hire kids,” he insists through clenched teeth. “That’s  _sick_ and _illegal_.”

“Well, I’d like to believe you, but there’s just one problem. You hired this one,” Phil says, placing down a tightly cropped photo of Clinton Barton they’d pulled from one of the films. The boy is clearly in flagrante delicto and his face suggests he’s in the middle of doing something that would send Children’s Services into a tizzy.

Thompson’s face goes deathly white. “Wait! No... No! That’s not… Jesus… Flint’s eighteen. I’m sure of it. He showed me his license _and_ his birth certificate. No. You’re wrong.”

Phil hums. “Not according to the federal fingerprint database, the one for _missing_ and _exploited_ children just so we’re clear, which identifies him as a sixteen-year-old missing from a foster home in Wisconsin. And he just turned sixteen a month ago. How long did you say he’s been filming with you?”

Thompson ignores the rhetorical question, probably unable to hear it over the massive meltdown that’s building.

“Oh fuck… no… fuck fuck fuck…” the guy whispers desperately. “I… I didn’t mean to…”

Phil sighs, not unkindly. He returns the photo to his folder.

“Doesn’t really matter. Every second of footage? Kiddie porn. Any money you received for it? Illegal. Anyone who downloads it is in possession. Anyone who… partnered with him is looking at endangerment of a minor, statutory rape, production of child pornography. Letting him so much as walk through the door of your set was enough to get you shut down. Never mind the Viagra and OxyContin we found in his system after pulling him directly from your film set.”

Thompson’s body tenses, giving every sign of a man about to make a desperate, ill-advised bid for freedom. Phil’s own body responds in kind, ready for anything. He might not outwardly look it, but he didn’t get this far on brains alone. Anyone who underestimates him does so at their own peril. But between one breath and the next Thompson collapses, all signs of fight gone, defeat in every stressed line of his face.

“I… I didn’t know,” Thompson says plaintively. “Honest. I know how that sounds like bullshit, but I swear! I really was just trying to run a clean business.”

“Ignorance is not a legal defense. You have a duty to do due diligence,” Phil reminds him. “But…”

“But?” Thompson repeats, perking up, a drowning man scrambling at the hint of a life preserver.

“I might be able to help you. If you help us.”

Thompson nods frantically, his headed moving up and down like a bobblehead doll after being flicked.

“Yes! Whatever you… Whatever I can do. There’s gotta be something. I don’t wanna go to jail for something like this.  And I have kids. I can’t be on some sex offender list.”

Phil pulls out a photo and slides it over to Thompson.

“Tell me what you know about Sergei Rutsov.”

“Who?”

“Sergei Rutsov. The guy who wired you almost two hundred thousand dollars this morning.”

Thompson heaved an irritated sigh. “Damn it to hell. Is nobody going by their real name?”

Phil lifted a brow at Ralph-cum-Hunter who saw no irony in his own complaint. “Seems par for the course in your business.”

“True enough, I guess.”

He looks at Phil’s picture again. "I don’t know anything about a Sergei Rutsov. In his letter, he said his name was Seth Ruthers and he was just a big fan of our work. Came across like an idle rich kid with money to burn.”

“So, you took a huge payment from him and focused all of your company’s resources on his request, no questions asked.”

Thompson wipes a hand over his face.

“I got excited, ok? I saw dollar signs and I didn’t stop to check if it was glitter or gold," he sighs heavily and slumps in his seat. "So, what’s the deal with Sergei Rutsov? Is he secretly underage, too? Another minor I unknowingly corrupted?”

“No. He’s an international criminal and aspiring terrorist you laundered money for and nearly gave a foothold here in the States.”

Thompson stares at Coulson for a long moment as though waiting for the punchline. When one doesn’t come, he blinks and lets his gaze drop.

“I think I’m going to be sick…”

-

Half an hour later, Phil exits the interrogation room with every detail Hunter Thompson could think of regarding his brief correspondences with Sergei Rutsov’s operation and a few details that had nothing to do with the case but Thompson seemed to have thrown in for fear of appearing to hide something. Ultimately, Coulson will probably recommend a huge fine, heavy and extended supervision, and maybe an adjudicated sentence that could be expunged if they all keep their noses clean for the foreseeable future. The kind of fines the State AG will hand down for child pornography, however unwittingly produced and distributed, will probably force the studio to shutter, but it pales in comparison to the time, resources, and manpower the government will spend to chase those dozens of illegal and illicit videos from the respectable parts of the internet to the farthest corners of the dark web.

Phil emerges from the police station, affidavits secured in his briefcase, and climbs into his dark sedan, starting the vehicle up and pointing it in the direction of the hospital. He has one more witness to debrief.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally climbed out of my Endgame feelings enough to finish this chapter. Let me know what you think!

Smell isn’t his strongest sense, but Clint knows from the first shallow inhale upon waking that he’s somehow managed to land himself in a hospital. Not that he’s been in one all that often, even when he probably should’ve been. Too expensive and too risky, crawling with well-meaning do-gooders asking all kinds of nosy questions. But the epic size of the shit storm required to force an ultra-rare hospital visit made the sounds and smells painfully memorable and unmistakable.

Experienced enough not to give away what little advantage he has, Clint carefully keeps his eyes closed and reaches out with his other senses best he can, trying to remember what exactly got him here this time. A soft, nubby standard-issue hospital blanket under his fingertips. The low, repetitive beep of the heart monitor to his left. The soft shush of recycled air with that distinct medicine-y smell wafting through the vents. A TV in the far corner of the room tuned to some type of upbeat kid’s show, turned down to the point of barely being audible. Cushioned footsteps in the hall, most likely staff going wherever they’re needed.

But most importantly, Clint detects a silent presence in the room. It doesn’t feel… dangerous… but it’s definitely out of place. Once upon a time, this would’ve been reassuring, because it would’ve been his brother, concerned and protective, dependable like the sun. But that… that‘s in the past. Barney made it _very_ clear the last they spoke that he’s no longer responsible for Clint or his wellbeing.

Swallowing hard against the painful lump that thought puts in his throat, Clint refocuses. He cracks his eyes the tiniest of slivers, just enough to be able to glimpse through his eye lashes and get a lay of the land. Scope then plan, he reminds himself.

It’s a guy... No. _Fuck_. It’s a _fed_.

Wha…

Then between one breath and the next, the whole embarrassing ordeal comes rushing back. Clint barely manages to bite back an embarrassed groan. His can almost see the feds who found him gathered around a water cooler laughing their guts out about the weird ass twink who shot his load in the middle of a raid.

At least this guy didn’t see it live, even if he probably knows about it.

Forcefully pushing the thought away, Clint continues his stealthy surveillance. The guy’s clothes practically scream G-Man, but he’s a bit younger than the one he’d seen before, probably fresh out of fed school or wherever they hatch these guys. That might work in Clint’s favor. The guy’s body language says he’s not expecting trouble, a little on the bored side if anything. Sitting at Clint’s bed side, he’s got one ankle propped up on the other knee, a newspaper balanced on his lap. Relaxed and settled in for the long haul, he’s leisurely working on the crossword puzzle.

Clint pretends to shift in his sleep, testing both his arms and legs to be sure he’s not cuffed to the bed. But all his body reports back is the slight sting of chafed skin at his wrists, ankles, and thighs from struggling against Jack’s ropes earlier. He relaxes, as much as he can with the law sitting three feet away and blocking the most obvious exit. With a deep breath, like someone shifting in the middle of sleep, he turns his head. A steady glimpse through his lashes reveals even more concerning details. In addition to the kids’ show on the TV, the walls are painted a soft but cheerful blue with a parade of colorful, smiling cartoon balloons floating across the wall, a sight that should be uplifting, but instead makes his stomach sink down to his toes.

It’s the pediatric wing. They’ve somehow figured out his real age.

Shit.

He’s gotta get out of here before he ends up in some stupid group home for troubled kids. Again.

“You’re in a hospital, kid,” the fed says suddenly.

Clint freezes, considering what to do next. His indecision becomes audible as the beeping of the heart monitor speeds up.

Damn it.

“I know you’re awake. Pretty sure you’ve been casing the room for the last ten minutes,” the agent says with a bit of humor in his voice.

Clint’s tempted to keep ignoring him or maybe pull the blanket over his head, but it’ll be even harder to convince the guy he’s wrong about Clint being a minor if he pretends to be asleep to make the bad man go away.

“It’s okay. You’re not in any trouble. You’re safe,” the guy says, misreading Clint’s hesitancy.

With an internal sigh, he lets his eyes flutter open and looks over.

The fed gives a small smile. “There you are. Been waiting for a couple of hours. I’m Agent Bennett. You can call me Andrew or Andy if you like. I’m here to make sure you’re safe and everybody’s being nice to you.”

 _Well, you’re about a decade too late,_ Clint thinks with a barely suppressed snort.

But now’s not the time for one of his rare pity parties. Clint clears his throat and shifts a little, trying to sit up, swallowing a groan at the tenderness in his body. Quickly folding his paper and stashing it away, Bennett leans forward and pushes a button on one of the rails. The head of the bed rises, giving Clint a stable incline to rest against.

Once he’s settled, Clint opens his mouth, even as he’s still trying to figure out what he can say to get out of this.

“Why am I…”

That’s all he gets out before his rasp disintegrates into a hacking cough. Bennett reaches for the bedside tray and pours some water, passing the plastic cup to Clint who accepts it gratefully, letting the cool liquid soothe his throat and wash away the nasty, chalky taste coating his tongue.

When he’s had his fill, he passes the cup back.

“Why are you what?” Bennett prompts patiently.

Clint’s dealt with enough social workers to know he has to choose his words carefully so they don’t come back to bite him when he least expects it.

“What are you going to do with me?” he corrects. “Am I going to jail?”

He probably can’t be prosecuted for the porn, but they might be able to nail him for lying about his age. And he’s well aware that being a runaway can land you in juvie ‘for your own good.’

“Nah,” Bennet says. “In fact, you’re probably the only one who’s _not_ going to jail. We arrested the bad men who hurt you and they’ll be going away for a long, _long_ time.

Clint grimaces, equally at the thought of Hunter, Jack, and the others going to prison primarily for the unintentional sin of trusting him and at Bennet’s patronizing tone. If Clint wasn’t eighty percent sure he’ll need to play the poor-innocent-me card to get out of this, he’d remind the agent he’s sixteen not six.

Bennet doesn’t notice the reaction and rattles on about how Clint’s the true victim here, trapped at the center of a vicious child pornography ring. He assures Clint he’s done nothing wrong and goes on and on about how they can get him placed in a great home with all the support he needs.

 _This doesn’t have to define you_ , he says. _You can go on to live a normal life._

Clint gives a perfected hopeful smile like he’s swallowing the pretty, little lies hook, line, and sinker just to get the guy to shut up.

As the day continues, Clint and Bennett talk sporadically. When the topic’s not about Clint’s newly former occupation, Bennett loosens up and talks to Clint like the near adult he actually is. They talk a little about basketball (apparently, the local college basketball team is having a pretty decent season), about school (the three and a half years Clint attended were okay), about a TV show centered around a monster hunter Bennett likes and thinks Clint should watch (Clint hasn't had access to a TV of his own since he was five).

Finally, a pretty nurse comes in with a tray of food.

“I hope you have an appetite,” she coos.

Clint definitely does. He hoards his earnings jealously, but normally after a day of filming, he treats himself to the biggest, most wasteful burger combo on Hungry Henry’s deluxe menu. An extreme luxury, it replenishes the calories he’s burnt and helps dull the effects of the drugs in his system. By now, his stomach his trying to figure out what gives and he’s about ready to eat anything they put in front of him.

Still, he’s a little disappointed at the tray in front him that’s apparently the ‘sensitive tummy’ menu the docs recommend after having to pump someone’s stomach. Clint wonders idly if this is what adults get, too.

He pokes half-heartedly at the Jell-O, scoops up a bite. It’s sweet and tangy, nearly painful in how sharp the citrusy taste is against his deprived taste buds. But instead of rejoicing in what would be a rare sweet treat on nine out of ten days, he screws up his face and makes a displeased sound, perfectly mimicking the spoiled brats he sometimes sees when he passes restaurants with outdoor seating.

“This is gross,” he whines. “You said I’m not in trouble, but this tastes like punishment.”

Bennett snorts. “Hospital rules.”

Clint sighs and mushes the gelatin under his plastic spoon.

“You sure you can’t get me anything from the cafeteria?” he wheedles.

“Sorry. Can’t leave my post,” Bennett says, sounding somewhat genuinely sympathetic.

Clint decides to up the ante, feeling like a heel even as he knows what he has to do.

“I’m sorry. I’m being a brat,” he apologizes, infusing his voice with his best imitation of sincerity. “It’s just that… At the last foster home, I was in… the dad. He used to… he used to make me… it was in the jello, so I couldn’t fight back, ya know?”

Clint looks up, letting tears well in his eyes. “It was strawberry, not lime like this, but the texture… I just... I _can’t_ …”

Bennett, who is probably far too kind-hearted for this job, nods with a soft sympathy in his eyes. He swallows once and then after a few seconds stands.

“Tell you what. There’s a food court on the first floor for visitors. How’s a burger and fries sound?” he asks with a placating smile, his eyes a little desperate with the need to make it better.

“Like heaven,” Clint says with a timid smile, a little sad he won’t be around to enjoy the fruits of his yarn he’s spinning.

“Alright, don’t go anywhere,” Bennett says, probably thinking it’s a rhetorical joke.

* * *

 Coulson’s cellphone buzzes at the exact same moment the elevator chimes heralding his arrival on the proper floor. He doesn’t even have time to check it before the elevator doors slide open and he’s confronted by harried agent. Bennet. A level 2 agent with a security clearance one step above trainees who could be spared to babysit a kid for the afternoon.

“We’re looking everywhere, sir,” Bennet blurts out, trying to forestall whatever reaction he anticipates from the senior agent.

Before Coulson can even formulate a response, his cellphone vibrates three more times in rapid succession. With a sigh, he slips it out of his pocket and glances down at the cascade of notifications.

_MINOR CB MISSING. FLOOR SEALED. SEARCHING._

_CODE YELLOW ACTIVATED._

_AMBER ALERT?_

_PLS ADVISE._

He looks up at Bennet who gulps and takes a nervous step back, probably seeing all his career hopes and dreams flash before his eyes.

“That kid had enough drugs in his system to keep him off his feet for at least another three hours,” Coulson says in a measured tone. “How exactly did he manage to slip past an agent posted _in_ his room and the entire hospital staff?”

Bennett relays how the kid suckered him and Phil almost has to admire it, especially from someone so young. That doesn’t make it any easier to accept. The kid was under their care and he might be running back to the arms of a pimp or who knows what kind of awful abusive situation. The story he gave Bennett wouldn’t be an uncommon backstory for someone who ended up in the porn industry so young.

Coulson organizes a methodical search of first the hospital and then expands the search grid to a ten-block radius. All they ever find is an abandoned hospital gown and a broken lock where he stole clothes from a PA’s locker.

Most sixteen-year-olds can’t successfully avoid a federal manhunt, even one conducted with kid gloves because of the age of the subject.

Phil’s professional interest is piqued.


	4. Chapter 4

The first order of business after slipping away from his fed shadow is clearing town. Unfortunately, that’ll mean running out on the lease for his tiny efficiency apartment which is a goddamned waste. The place is perfect, located in a slightly rundown part of town with low rent prices designed to appeal to students at the nearby junior college and anyone who can tolerate the constant noise and traffic they create. With the ebb and flow of each semester and graduation, the complex has a high turnover rate, making it much easier for Clint to blend in among the fresh-faced eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds. On top of that, it’s a bottom floor corner unit with plenty of ways to get in and out in a hurry, within walking distance of a discount grocer, a laundromat, a skate park, and the library. For a little while, despite the less than savory things he did to pay for it, Clint had felt like he had his own little slice of home and he has to bite back burning swells of anger in his belly as he pulls out drawers and dumps the contents into a duffle bag, preparing leave the first stable residence he’s had in years.

It’s unavoidable, though. He’s not naïve enough to think the feds hadn’t fingerprinted him while he was unconscious. It’s standard practice for an unidentified minor they believe is being trafficked. Add in all the still photos and video of him they had to have confiscated from Happy Trails, it’s only a matter of time before they track him down if he stays.

Teeth clenched, Clint stomps away from the dresser over to his bedside table. He picks up the books he kept there. A GED workbook and a course catalogue from the junior college. He stares at them for a moment before chucking them violently into the trash, scoffing a disgusted noise at the ridiculousness of it all.

“In your dreams,” he mutters darkly to himself.

He’d spent so much time blending in with co-eds, listening to them talk about school and their plans for the future, he’d started to nurse a fantasy that maybe one day he could actually be one of them. He’d been painstakingly working his way through the GED prep book, the minuscule progress each night making it even more glaringly obvious he was ridiculously fucking behind. Not that he'd held any illusions to the contrary. The last time he’d consistently gone to school had been the third grade and even then it hadn’t been every day. He and Barney had both missed long stretches when their foster dad decided there were too many cuts or bruises to avoid suspicion.

Clint could read, though. Well, mostly. As long as there weren’t too many big words. And he could do basic math, particularly the kind that had to do with budgeting money. But he was better at hands on application. He could eyeball a person or a building and figure out how tall they were, how far away they were, what angle he would need to hit them with a rock or arrow. Good to know in the circus when he needed to make flashy trick shots, not so much in day to day life. He’d spent more than one night wistfully flipping through the course cataloguing, circling classes that sounded interesting, trying to figure out how what he knew, what he could do, and what was being offered could be cobbled into a two-year degree.

He should’ve known better. Fucking loser, like every other Barton before him.

Having packed everything else he intends to take, he drops to a knee and slides a long, canvas duffel out from under his bed. Unzipping the bag then lifting the flap of the cardboard box inside, he runs a reverent hand over the contents, a brief reassurance that everything is still intact. His bow and quiver. He might not use her every day anymore, but he’d never leave his girl behind. For a while, his shooting days had started to seem like another lifetime, but he might need them now. Re-fastening everything, he pulls the straps of his duffels over his shoulder. After one last longing look around the room, he sets his shoulders and walks out, locking the door behind him, literally closing the door on that chapter his life. Sighing in frustration, he heads out towards the Greyhound station.

* * *

Phil can’t stand leaving a job undone. Even though he isn’t the one who lost Barton, he feels like he’s failing the kid by not finding him. However, seedy it might’ve been, they cut the kid off from his primary means of providing for himself then lost track of him before making sure he had a safe place to stay and steady means to eat. If his time as a Ranger and then as federal agent has taught him anything, it’s that people will do wildly foolish things to put a roof over their head and food in their belly. That’s how they catch ninety-eight percent of their informants and a good chunk of their criminals.

He can’t focus on Barton’s case las much as he’d like. One kid who voluntarily fled hospital care is not professionally considered worth the full attention of a senior SHIELD agent. But it’s a case that Phil worries at like a sore tooth any time he has a modicum of down time. Today, he has an hour or so before his next briefing and he finds himself standing in front of what is quickly becoming his unofficial Clint Barton Corkboard Clue Board. Using the finger prints they’d taken from the kid and a little investigative elbow grease, Phil’s been able to patch together a timeline of the kid’s tragic-so-far life. There are only two pictures of Barton that were not pulled from Happy Trails, one taken around age 3 and another around age 7. Phil considers the circumstances that would allow for a four year gap where no one cared to take a single picture of a growing child. There's nothing he can do other than shake his head.

The Barton family history starts much in the same way as all families. Harold and Edith Barton married in 1974, a butcher and homemaker respectively, settled down in Waverly, Iowa. Eldest son Charles Bernard Barton born in 1977, youngest son Clinton Francis Barton born in 1981. The first signs of trouble showed up in 1984 with a note from Charles’ second grade teacher concerned about the bruises on the boy. Two years later, Clint’s kindergarten teacher called Social Services, concerned about Clint’s tendency to steal food and hide it in his cubby. Over the continuing two years, the concerns continue ranging from hospital admissions for broken bones which also noted that the boys were painfully underweight and poorly socialized, school records marking teachers' request for special services for Clint to test for a learning disorder, and notes from a social worker, noting deadlines the Barton parents had been given to address the concerns their social worker had presented about the boys’ wellbeing in addition to notes in the margin that suggested evidence of domestic violence between husband and wife. It had all come to a head with a police report from 1988 detailing the fatal crash that had killed Harold and Edith. Harold’s blood alcohol had been nearly triple the legal limit.

 _The man shouldn’t have even been upright, let alone behind the wheel of a car,_ Phil thinks to himself as he flips the page.

It had taken the police three days to identify the bodies and an additional two for the staff at Waverly Elementary to hear the news and call the police to find out what had become of the two Barton boys.

From there, with no living relatives, they’d bounced from foster to foster home until in 1992, just shy of Clint’s eleventh birthday, both boys had disappeared, neither one generating any additional paper work until Clint landed on SHIELD’s radar with Happy Trails.

Phil sighs and scratches his head. What happened in those missing six years? Where's the older brother? By all accounts, they’d been as thick as thieves.

The clue has to lie in the last foster home. Phil sits at his desk and shoots off a quick email before heading to his briefing. If he can find out what was happening in Hayward, Wisconsin in August of 1992, maybe he’ll have a lead on his missing kid.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I've been super busy. But I really want to thank everyone who messaged me encouragement and questions. It helped keep this story at the forefront of my mind. I'm already working on the next chapter!

By all appearances Althea Nelson is a sweet, kind old lady. With snow-white hair and pale, age-worn skin that makes her look every bit the grandmother she’d be if she’d ever had kids of her own, she doesn’t seem capable of harming anyone, not physically any way. But Phil knows there’s more than one way to hurt a person. Her social services folder says she’s been banned from fostering children since February of 1993, one month after it was discovered she’d failed to report the disappearance of the Barton brothers over six months earlier.

“What can you tell me about this boy?” Coulson asks, setting out the photo of Clint that was closest in age to when Althea had fostered him.

She studies the photo for a brief moment. “Clinton. _Clint._ Quiet little guy. Cute, too. Eyes like silver dollars just watchin’ everything. Surprised you’re here about him and not that brother of his. That one’s the reason my license got pulled.”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” Coulson prodded. He’d read the official account, but he wanted her to describe it in her own words.

Her lips press into a thin line and her brow furrowed briefly before smoothing out. “I fostered for nearly forty years, did you know that? And I ran a tight ship. Firm love. Most of the kids just needed rules, some consistency. To know somebody cared enough to set limits.”

She looks down at the picture again.

“In ’82 _and_ in ‘83, I was honored by the city for my work. ‘An angel of mercy’ they called me. I was _good_ for those kids. Being here _helped_ them,” she says emphatically. “All I wanted… I just wanted to give them a good home.”

Then she sighs, a resigned sound.

“But maybe… maybe I was a fool, too caught up in how much I liked helping. I should’ve admitted long before it fell apart that I knew I was getting too old to wrangle last chancers.”

Coulson raised a brow in interest. “The Bartons were ‘last chancers’?”

Althea draws a contemplative breath, taking a moment to unwrap and rewrap the shawl around her shoulders.

“Not the younger one, no. He was a sweetheart, left to his own devices. A lot of families would’ve been glad to take him in. But that older one? He could get up to no good in an empty room. And there wasn’t no keepin’ them apart. If he fell into trouble, the younger one would dive right in after him.”

Coulson nodded. It matched what little he knew of the boys. “And they found trouble here?”

She gives him a sharp look. “Won’t do you no good playin’ dumb with me. You _know_ they did.”

“I know what I read, ma’am. I’m asking for your insight,” Coulson replies firmly but respectfully.

She gives an agreeable nod, takes a sip of the ice tea she’d set out for them, stalling a moment longer before continuing.

“One of the rules was that boys weren’t allowed on the second floor. That’s where the girls’ rooms were. Mine is the first door past the stair landing,” she says. “But that Barney… he was a charmer and a sneak.”

She clicks her tongue ruefully. “In my hay day, he’d’ve never got past me. I had ears like a bat. But that boy? Quiet like mouse and sly like a fox when he wanted to be.”

“And the fox got in the hen house?” Coulson supplied helpfully.

“Yeah, he did,” she says. “I never really bought his choir boy act. Too obvious, ya know? But by the time I realized how much rule breaking he was really doin’, Pamela was three months on.”

The murmured admission hung in the air, heavy and stale.

“Can’t imagine a foster child turning up pregnant while in state care went over well,” Coulson murmured.

“Went over like a lead balloon,” she said with a shake of her head. “Social services immediately pulled all three girls. I never got any of ‘em back. Pamela went to a special home for pregnant teens while they investigated. Then she started sayin’ he forced himself on her. It was a mess.”

Phil knew from reading the file, the girl had eventually recanted, saying they’d been boyfriend and girlfriend and she’d simply been afraid of being punished if she admitted she’d willingly had sex with her foster brother, particularly since Barney happened to be a year _younger_ than her. But by the time she’d had her change of heart, the Bartons had already disappeared, Barney likely scared to death of facing sexual assault charges.

“Why didn’t you tell anybody when the boys ran?”

She closes her eyes for a long moment and a dull red flushes her skin.

“Embarrassment, I guess,” she says. “I failed my girls. Then I failed my boys.”

“And you never figured out where they went?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Never heard a peep out of them. They didn’t have any family, never claimed to know anybody anywhere. Clint sometimes talked about running off to the circus, but he also talked about living on the moon. You know how kids that age are.”

Coulson cocks his head, intrigued. “Did you ever take them to see the circus?”

Althea shakes her head confused. “No. Other than Clint, all of my kids were teenagers. They wouldn’t’ve like it.”

“But was there ever a circus ever around? Or a carnival or some type of traveling exhibition?”

Althea pauses, thinking. “You know, there was a… a carnival. I remember it from the way back when I was much younger. It used to travel through, made a circuit of the surrounding states. It was a family troop. Or at least a group pretending to be a family. Carl’s… Carlson’s… Carson’s. That’s it. Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders.”

Coulson jots the name down on the inside of the folder before sliding the photos inside and flipping it closed. He pulls a card from his breast pocket.

“If you think of anything else,” he says.

She takes it, inspecting the bland white card with just his name, a generic federal agent title, and an untraceable number.

“Of course,” she says.

As Phil heads towards the door, she follows, seeing him off.

“Whatever Clint’s gotten himself mixed up in, just know he’s a good kid,” she says. “Just had a hard start and never quite shook it.”

“He hasn’t done anything bad,” Phil assures her. “I’m just trying to find him and make sure he’s safe. I want to help him.”

“Good,” she says firmly. “That one needs all the help he can get.”

-

 

Crossing state lines isn’t much of a hassle once he manages to convince the lady at the ticket window that _Yes, his dad would be there to meet him on the other end_ and _It’s not a big deal, his mom and dad send him back and forth several times a month and twice during summers_. Ticket in hand, Clint slumps into the seat, relieved when the bus is finally in motion. It won’t actually stop the feds who have jurisdiction nationwide particularly in cases of kiddie porn. But California’s a pretty big state with lots of lost little boys and girls who came seeking fortune and fame. It’ll take them a while to figure out he skipped out on the state all together.

He’d heard a lot about Portland. It would be as good a place as any to start over. If that didn’t work, he’ll just keep moving north towards Seattle. Maybe things are looking up.

Or maybe not.

Clint’s always had crap luck. The first road bump is finding a place to crash. The shelters here all require proof of identity he no longer has for anyone who looks like a minor. Getting a new set of forged papers would cost more than he has to spend if he wants to eat as well. Other than the Flint Poleman ID, he doesn’t have any papers to back up his made-up age. Even if there was a tiny chance that identity wasn’t beyond burned, he’s scared to use it. There might be APBs on it. And he sure as shit can’t go back to his old profession. The world of porn is surprisingly small and the few furtive online forum searches he managed to do on the library computers showed that word’s out that ‘Flint’ is jailbait. All his videos have been pulled from any website able to be considered even passably reputable and both he and Happy Trails are persona non grata.

Determined, he trudges on. He lasts for nearly three months on his nest egg before it runs dry, even the crummiest of cheap motels expensive when he relied on them for days on end. He tries busking with street performances, panhandling, and selling everything he has except his bow and the clothes on his back, but after going another two weeks of hit or miss on rather he got to eat on any given day, he falls back on the one skill he swore he’d never use again.

Already regretting it, he strolls into a neighbor, holding a box of Snickers bars he spent his last few dollars on. If anyone asks, he’s from the Hawke Boys’ Basketball team doing a fundraiser. After going to enough houses to set up his pretense (and making turning a ten buck profit to boot), he finds a house that looks promising. Ducking around the back, out of sight of neighbors, he checks it out, peering through the windows. It’s looks like it’s empty during the day. Most of the neighborhood appears to be empty during the day. Clint repeats his fundraiser routine for three alternate days and then finally breaks in the following week. He scales the rain gutter up and shimmies into an open window on the second floor. Lots of nice stuff. In the study he looks at a few pictures. One of them tickles a memory somewhere in his mind. A guy in a t-shirt with a full head of hair but familiar blue eyes and a slight smile.

There’s a cello. A thin brunette with pale skin, shaking hands, and a gun. A big gun.

“Th-the police are already on their way,” she blurts shakily, her eyes wide and white with fear.

Clint slowly raises his hands but otherwise doesn’t twitch a muscle. Nothing beats the uncanny beginner’s luck of a frightened, untrained civilian who doesn’t actually want to kill anyone.

It’s only another minute or two before the sound of sirens split the air.


End file.
